


Au Raisin de Corinthe

by crimsondust



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Bahorel/Prouvaire, Hijinks, Multi, implied Enjolras/Combeferre, romantic friendships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432595
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crimsondust/pseuds/crimsondust
Summary: Series of interconnected vignettes from 1820 to 1832 post-barricades, some of which are told from the view point of Matelote and all of which reference Corinthe in some way.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Anacrea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anacrea/gifts).



> The prompt was:  
> Anything at all featuring the Corinthe staff, especially Matelote and Gibelotte, and the Corinthe restaurant itself. Ideally there's sort of a sense of respect and affection between them and the Amis (after all, they knew them for several years). How involved you want them to be in any kind of revolutionary activity aside from their work on the barricades, if at all, is up to you.  
> Happier Times when Father Hucheloup was alive, the place was successful, etc. would make me just as happy as some kind of heart-wrenching post-canon setting.  
>  
> 
> Thank you for such a lovely prompt. Hope this fulfils the prompt in some way and that you enjoy it, friend.

1820

The rising sun was sketching golden lines on the buildings, when a young traveler stopped outside Rue Mondétour. She took a deep breath as she surveyed her surroundings. The buildings around her seemed at first glance as flimsy as paper cut-outs and were shored up with beams to prevent them from falling apart. A few shop sign were visible, including a basket maker’s shop on the right.

There were not many people on the street at this time of the day; a carriage was standing on the corner, a butcher’s boy was riding on his cycle, and a newspaper man was walking and waving the papers in the air, while avoiding the wet pavements.   

She entered the little restaurant and wine shop on the corner of Rue Rambuteau and Rue Mondétour.

It may be necessary at this point to give a little sketch of the people who were part of the restaurant. Father Hucheloup was a jovial, if a gruff head of establishment. His cooking had brought the little establishment much fame in very little time; his carp au gras was well loved. Besides Father Hucheloup and his wife, Mother Hucheloup, there was a serving girl called Gabrielle, a slim young girl, with large eyes. She looked tired and exhausted to Marguerite, but otherwise in good spirits.

Father Hucheloup treated his staff well, as Marguerite found out and in a few weeks, she had learnt the preferences of some of the regular customers. It was exhausting work, staying on your feet all day, but the pay was good, better than her last job, and the Hucheloups were kind to her.

Gabrielle seemed feisty and bubbly when the mood suited her and they got on well together, gossiping about the customers and talking about their own families. Father Hucheloup had one eccentricity. He remembered the names of the dishes and their recipes better than he remembered names of people around him. So he often associated the dishes with the people.

Marguerite looked at the mirror on the wall of the attic bedroom she shared with Gabrielle and sighed as she took out the comb from her hair and brushed it. She was glad to leave her old life behind her.

She had been a young girl in a household of several siblings and was therefore sent to work from an early age, as a laundress and as a cook. She had taken a lover too, not out of any actual feelings but out of necessity and left him because of the same feelings. They had said a hurried, unemotional goodbye. He seemed eager to leave, she suspected to another mistress and she seemed eager to leave for Paris to look for a better job. There was something comical in the way they said goodbye, she thought. That was the same week she came to Paris.

Gabrielle’s voice interrupted her thoughts.  

‘I should write and send money to my mother, tomorrow.’

‘Can you help me?’ Marguerite asked, ‘In writing letters to my sister. I never learned to read or write.’

Gabrielle nodded, ‘Of course, I’ll teach you.’ She yawned and snuggled under a thin sheet, ‘What time is it? We need to be up at the crack of dawn.’

The Corinthe was a bustle of activity in the evenings. The tables were packed with a motley crowd of workers, singers, theatrical actors, students, grisettes and rag pickers. The walls were decorated with posters. ‘Long Live Poland’ one of them said, ‘Citoyennes’ the other one reads reminiscent of the posters from 89 or early 90s, addressing the women and calling on them to fight for their rights. There was a poster advertising a singing society. On the first floor were billiard tables, which were occupied by young men angling the balls with their cues and smoking cigarettes.

‘Matelote!’ Father Hucheloup called out. Marguerite wondered for a moment, realized that Father Hucheloup meant her and hurried to the counter to pick up the order for one of the tables.

‘You get used to Father Hucheloup’s eccentricities.’ Gabrielle told her as she hurried back to the kitchen with empty plates, ‘He can never remember names anyway.’

Matelote smiled, ‘I don’t mind.’

Two young men walked into Corinthe.

‘I’m telling you my dearest L’Aigle, we can wash down the dinner with some splendid wine here. What a crowd though, this is not the Corinth of the Ancient Greeks with its winged Pegasus and its splendid chariot races, but it cannot hurt to raise a glass to Bacchus, if it shall ease the melancholia. I have dined all over Paris and only now have I discovered that Carpe Horas leads to carp au gras. Carpe Horas the sign says, well here I am.’

Bossuet put his hand on Grantaire’s shoulder and laughed, ‘I’m glad you approve of the place and I trust your recommendation.’

In the corner a drunken poet was reciting his verses to anyone who would listen till Father Hucheloup told him he has had enough to drink and had better leave.

‘You call that poetry?’ an old ragpicker shouted from across the room at him.

Bossuet and Grantaire had been talking for fifteen minutes and Grantaire looked positively more cheerful now than when they had entered, he was watching a game of dominos being played, when Matelote came to their table with their order.

‘Is that not a homely little creature?’ Grantaire whispered, a little tipsy, while Bossuet frowned at him.

‘Silence, capital R.’    

‘I like her. She reminds me a little of a pretty boot stitcher, I’ve seen once or twice. She never gives me the time of the day. Women, mind it, my dear Bossuet, always the same.’

Matelote who had overheard the sentence was annoyed, while Gibelotte reassured her that they sometimes had to deal with similar customers. ‘Ignore him. I think you’re pretty.’ She smiled. Matelote blushed as she carries empty beer glasses back to the counter.

‘You should be charming to her then, dear Grantaire.’ Bossuet said, touching him lightly on the sleeve.

‘Charming, my dear Bossuet, comes from the word charm or charisma which in Greek takes the form of charizomai, to bestow freely, to show favour. Do I not show favour to the pretty young women of my acquaintance by bestowing myself on them frequently? Ergo, they think me charming. But you, dear Bossuet, your adventures with your mistress have not gone so well either, have they?’

‘Julie? I made a friend instead, I didn’t realize he went to law school, because I rarely see him around. His name’s Bahorel and he seems like a sensible young man, very much interested in politics.’

‘I may know him.’ Grantaire said, ‘I have been boxing with a fellow called Bahorel. If your man is the same.’

 'Handsome, black hair--'

‘My dear Lesgles, I didn’t know you had a type.’ Grantaire shot back while Bossuet laughed.

‘I must, evidently. Though I don’t know why I spend all my evenings with you then.’

‘Well now that you are unfortunately unlucky to have ended up with me, no sensible mortal will want to be your intimate companion.’ 

‘My dearest Grantaire, I suppose we will have to make do with each other, especially since I find myself without any permanent lodgings once again.’ He added cheerfully.

Matelote came back to their table with more wine but she was still fuming at Grantaire. Bossuet saw the look.

‘I’m sorry, may I ask you for your name, I must apologise for the atrocious manners of my friend here. He’s a dear but he lets his tongue run with him sometimes.’

‘Says you.’ Grantaire snorted.

‘Matelote.’ She murmured, so used to hearing that nickname that she forgot to give her Christian one.

‘It is a pleasure, Matelote.’

‘I was very beautiful once, my dears.’ One of the old ragpickers smiled her toothless smile, ‘another drink my dear.’

Bossuet gave Mother Hucheloup a coin as she reluctantly poured out a little sherry for the woman, ‘Thank you dear,’ the old woman said raising a glass with her calloused, shaking hands.

They noticed a few workers huddled together in the corner with their beers, laughing at some joke.

‘Do you think I should ask them for a game of dominos?’ Grantaire asked, draining his glass as he follows their game keenly.

‘And who do I thank once again, young gentlemen?’ the old ragpicker asked.

‘Bossuet.’

‘I knew a Bossuet once.’ She began.

‘You look old enough to do so.’ Grantaire laughed as he poured himself another drink.

‘I am.’ She smiled as she stared ahead in the distance, ‘I could tell you tales of my youth that would astonish you. Ah! I used to travel everywhere in those days. I dined with counts and Barons. Once a prince told me he loved me.’

‘He is only called that on account of being L’Aigle from Meaux.’ Grantaire looked pleased with himself, ‘L’Aigle de Meaux.’ He repeated and laughed.

The old woman smiled, ‘Very nice, dear.’ She started reminiscing about the people she had apparently met, which list became more and more implausible as it became more and more illustrious, while Bossuet and Grantaire made their excuses to leave. Bossuet tipped his hat to Matelote before disappearing with Grantaire.

‘The other one’s quite nice, though he has quite a high forehead and fine, thin hair, which won’t last long.’ Gibelotte observed.

‘He has a charming smile.’

Gibelotte laughed.

Late at night, as they were preparing for bed, Gibelotte put a hand to her back.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing. It’s nothing. I always have aches, pains and headaches which never get better. Today has been busy, so they are bothering me quite a lot.’

‘I can massage your back and shoulders if you like, or at least let me comb your hair. That might help you relax.’

Gibelotte let Matelote brush her thick black hair and message her shoulders. Afterwards she fell asleep immediately, she had been the last one left in the shop, busy clearing the tables and fastening the door. Matelote remains in deep thought.  

She was thinking about the words of that student.

It was all the constant work and no rest, she reminded herself. No, it wasn’t quite true, everyone said that she would be homely, even the men she had been with implied as much. She couldn’t help letting that piece of knowledge bother her. 

June 1820

‘What is all the commotion?’ Mother Hucheloup asked Gibelotte. Gibelotte shrugged, she herself was waiting for Matelote to make an appearance after having been gone for several hours. The evening sky was overcast with dark clouds and it had started raining, softly at first then all at once in a heavy downpour. It should not have taken this long to buy the ingredients. She had to get started on the preparations of the main dish, a rabbit stew with vegetables.

‘Where is she?’ Gibelotte muttered walking in the doorway as the clock struck four in the afternoon.

‘Will you stop, you’re making me nervous.’ Mother Hucheloup complained, ‘There is so much work to do.’

She stopped a young boy with red cheeks and an even redder nose. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Haven’t you heard? The students and everyone is protesting. People have been injured by gendarmes with hatchets.’ He said blowing into his handkerchief and running away, ‘I promised I wouldn’t be late, maman will be worried.’

Matelote returned, almost out of breath and soaking wet. ‘People are rioting at a student’s funeral in the faubourg Saint-Antoine and Porte Saint-Martin and probably at other places.’

‘Thank God! You’re okay.’ Gibelotte gave her a quick hug, ‘I was worried.’

Mother Hucheloup who was standing outside, returned and closed the doors.

Matelote sat down, she looked shaken. They all stared at each other, their eyes clearly carried the ‘what now’ sentiment, but none of them spoke a word. After a pause, Mother Hucheloup started taking out the plates and the glasses.

‘Well, we still have to open Corinthe.’ She said and that was the end of the discussion.

Matelote nursed a head cold for the next two days as she went about her activities. The mood of the entire household was somber. Even the usual patrons were less boisterous, though more and more workers seemed to gather at Corinthe to meet and discuss the happenings. From listening to snippets of their conversations, Matelote picked up some details of what was going on in the city and it caused her alarm, anger and pain as news came of more people being arrested, injured or killed almost every day. It was her first encounter with the violence in the city, she did not know what to make of it. Everyone went around tight lipped. Father Hucheloup never said a word on the matter and Mother Hucheloup and Gibelotte went about their duties as usual.

A few days later, Corinthe was packed with the usual crowd. Matelote’s gaze was occupied by a couple of students who seem to be new there, in particular one student.

‘They are all ninnies the lot of them, Louis XVIII, his ministers and the police hiding among the crowd and attacking us while we were unarmed. What bravery.’ He banged his fist on the table. Matelote could see that his face carried fresh cuts and a possible broken nose.  

He didn’t seem very old, possibly around nineteen or twenty, she believed.

‘Watch where you’re going?’ Gibelotte said, following her gaze and catching her arm to prevent them from colliding with each other.

The students and they all look like students, were talking again. They mentioned some laws that she had not heard and talked angrily about double votes.

Matelote stood fixed at her spot with the dishes in her hand, listening intently.  

‘Are you law students?’ she found herself asking as she put drinks on their table.

Everyone nodded. The young man looked up at her, grinned and added, ‘In a manner of speaking.’

‘Bahorel here has been a law student for four years now. The law degree takes two years, three at most.’

‘He thinks lectures are boring.’ She realized it was the student she knew as Bossuet, ‘Can’t say I don’t share the sentiment and haven’t often skipped lectures myself.’

‘There are other important things in life than attending lectures.’ He smiled warmly at Matelote, while she blushed. Drinks served, she left the students talking among themselves while she busied herself in the kitchen.

‘WHAT THE…’ Father Hucheloup’s loud voice came to her ears. She rushed outside, forgetting the order she was putting finishing touches on. The young man, Bahorel, was embroiled in a fight with another patron. A man she knew frequented this place often, but she had never warmed up to him.

‘He was defending the Royalists, defending the double votes for the aristocrats and making light of the protests and the people attacked and killed with hatchets by the secret agents of the police. He’s a fucking ultra-royalist.’ Bahorel sputtered as his friends tried to calm him down and pulled him away from the man.

Father Hucheloupe turned to the man, ‘Monsieur, I must politely ask you to leave this establishment.’

He threw a contemptuous glance at both of them before leaving. ‘This is a terrible place anyway. Bonapartists and Republicans the lot of you.’

‘The drinks are on the house.’ Father Hucheloup said quietly patting Bahorel on the shoulder as he sits down, ‘You should be more careful.’ He stopped to laugh and joke with the students but Matelote could tell he was worried by what had passed a few moments ago.

One of the factory workers, a man called Guinot, one of the regulars, got up to join the students and they became embroiled in a discussion on various points of the law while Matelote hurried to serve more drinks.   

* * *

 

It had been several weeks since that incident and Corinthe returned to its usual activity and the weather settled into its usual routine with occassional rains. 

‘Come, let’s go.’ Gibelotte said tying her bonnet and walking impatiently while Matelote finished dressing.

‘Where are we going?’

‘To check out the singing society I mentioned. They are right across the street from us.’

‘I have never sung anything in my life.’ Matelote said, looking nervous as she put on her old shoes, ‘Does everyone have to sing?’

‘No, silly. Anybody who wants to, can sing.’

‘Can you sing?’ she asked as they said goodbye to Mother Hucheloup and set off across the street arm in arm.

‘Can I sing?’ Gibelotte’s eyes gleamed, ‘Well, you’ll just have to find out won’t you? But they also hold dances in the empty barn, if that’s more to your taste.’

‘You bet it is.’ Matelote smiled. She squeezed her friend’s arm as they continued to walk.

‘Hello! What does this say?’ Matelote asked pointing to the sign at the front entrance, ‘Is it closed?’

‘Can you read it?’

‘The…young people’s…sing-ing…society.’

‘Good. So our reading lessons are paying off.’ Gibelotte smiled.

‘I can’t read the rest of it.’

‘It says that all political discussions and activity is forbidden. I’m not surprised.’ Gibelotte muttered darkly, ‘Let’s go inside.’

The singing society which had a large working class membership, met in an abandoned barn which has plenty of space for dancing. The chairs were arranged at the sides of the room. At the front was a stage where a young girl was singing an old folk song, as Matelote and Gibelotte took their places. An older singer with greying hair who came after her switched to a dance number and couples got up one by one to dance. Matelote looked around her embarrassed. All the young men seemed to have been taken.

‘Will you give me the pleasure of the next dance?’ It was Gibelotte’s voice and she was trying hard to keep a serious face. Matelote smiled and both of them square dance around the room. For the next song, everyone danced in a group and then partners were shuffled.

When the songs ended, they rushed to the chairs laughing with delight.

A young man came up to them and bowed.

‘I feel I was very rude that day and caused you all embarrassment.’ Matelote looked up. It was that handsome young man, he still had some scars on his forehead, near his eyebrows; the scars were how she remembered that he was called Bahorel. She smiled and shook her head.

‘Father Hucheloup approved of you.’

‘Father Hucheloup is a good sort.’ He smiled, ‘I’m glad to see you are having fun.’

‘Have you come with someone?’

Bahorel nodded.

‘Isn’t your mistress going to be jealous?’ Gibelotte asked.

He smiled, ‘My mistress and I have a social contract. We don’t violate the terms. Consequently, I am free to do whatever I wish and she to what she wishes. It is a very Republican contract and suits us both.’

‘Are you Republican?’

Bahorel nodded proudly.

‘What about the notice on the board?’

He cursed under his breath before apologizing, ‘I think restricting politics and gathering of workers is another way of the government trying to stop people from revolting against them. This is part of Le Chapelier law.’

‘Sounds complicated.’

‘Not at all. Would you be interested in learning more about politics?’

‘We should really leave, thank you…er…Monsieur.’ Gibelotte said hurriedly as the people were shuffling past them.

‘Bahorel.’ The young man bowed, ‘At least, let me walk you to wherever you are going?’

‘Thank you Monsieur, but it’s not very far.’

Later, Gibelotte stretched on the bed in her nightgown while Matelotte twirled around the room. ‘It was wonderful.’

‘I’m glad.’ Gibelotte said.

‘But why should we not learn more about politics?’

‘And do what with it? Politics gets you into trouble. It gets you killed. Besides, women can’t vote. We have no say in the government, no matter what happens.’

‘But Gibelotte…Father Hucheloup approved of it. I wonder, if Father Hucheloup is a Republican?’ Matelote fell on the bed fully clothed and gazed at the ceiling thoughtfully. She turned what Gibelotte had said over in her mind, was it better to not be involved in politics, she did not know, she supposed it must be so. She was distracted by Gibelotte who complained about feeling dizzy and nearly fainted.

‘Are you alright?’ she rushed to her friend’s side.

‘It is fine, this happens all the time. I’ll just have aches and pains and a bad back tomorrow after dancing. I hate that this pain never goes away, no matter what I do.’

‘You should go see a doctor.’

‘I did. He diagnosed it as a liver disease and told me to take a concoction of powders. I didn’t.’

‘Honestly, you’re just as bad as my old father used to be, about mistrusting doctors.’

‘With good reason, I have had far too much experience with inexperienced ones.’

‘I worry about you, you know.’ 

‘I know.’ Gibelotte said, knowing fully well that her chronic pain would keep her awake half the night, but she did not say anything to Matelote who was so full of excitement that she fell asleep very soon.


	2. Chapter 2

1823

‘I have not attended more than five lectures this year, for the sake of registration, including the one to argue with my law professor about how wrong he is to support the present government.’ Bahorel was telling Bossuet. They were sitting upstairs in Corinthe, which afforded more privacy, since the billiard tables were empty and there were only a few people there.

‘Perhaps they will pass you without you having to attend the lectures or give the exams. You probably know as much as the professors by now.’

Bahorel looked gloomy at this thought.  

‘They don’t want me there. They denounced all the students who were there at Lallemand’s funeral. They should have expelled me three years ago.’

‘That Blondeau gets on my nerves far too many times. Someday this Bossuet will live up to his name and deliver a funeral oration for his law professors.’ Bossuet said, keeping one eye on Grantaire who was cheating at cards, ‘that was a queen, Grantaire, I saw it. Put it back. You could leave though, Bahorel?’

‘And miss a chance of aggravating them and causing them more embarrassment like I do generally every year by spectacularly failing? Nah! My only fear is that they will pass me and call me to the bar just to get rid of me.’ Bahorel laughed.

Grantaire gave Bossuet a deplorable look while replacing the queen, ‘You Eagle of Meaux seem to have no sense of humour.’

‘And you no sense of honour.’ Bossuet laughed.

‘Since we are confessing, I have not been attending art school.’ Grantaire announced as he wins the game and Bossuet starts shuffling the cards, ‘Gros’ methods being as still as the objects he intended us to draw. I shall never have to pick up a brush and stare at a horse or an apple and then leave it in frustration when the strokes on the paper refuse to do as they are told. But what talk of violence or politics, when nothing changes I look at the paper one day it is the same, the next day it is the same once again, I would rather talk of dancing, which I can moderately understand or of drinking which I am unusually good at.’

‘Grantaire I love you, but you’re a dolt.’ Bahorel said, ‘I think you should take more interest in politics now that you hang out with terrible law students like us.’

Grantaire pretended to be outraged, ‘How dare you call me a dolt, Bahorel.’

‘And don’t think you can take me in boxing or singlesticks anymore. You are getting quite flabby.' He punched Grantaire playfully.

‘And of course you are always looking immaculate.’

‘Do you doubt it?’

He showed his checked burgundy waistcoat which was tight-fitting as well as his new trousers.

‘You’re a puffed peacock. Like a vain bird you strut around town. You do not impress me. You-’

‘Oh leave off Grantaire.’ Bossuet said lazily as he stretched in his chair, ‘So is that where you’re coming from this evening?’ He lowered his voice, ‘Did you meet with the other workers?’

Bahorel smiled and nodded, ‘I have also found someone interested in joining our little ragtag group. It’s a fellow I slept with at a Saint-Simonian commune once.’ He looked unabashedly at both of them.

‘Oh, I feel positively betrayed, Bahorel. What about us? I thought we were in love.’ Bossuet joked.

Bahorel grinned, ‘Would you feel better if I flirted with you? Made assurances of my undying love?’

‘It would help.’ Bossuet said, tossing a crumpled paper at him, ‘Grantaire, can I come sleep with you?’  

Grantaire sighed, still sour about his queen.  

‘Trouble is eh…I may have implied to him that it’s an educational society or he may have assumed it was. He was quite enthusiastic about basic education for children and I may have failed to undeceive him.’   

What’s the fellow’s name?’

‘Combeferre. He’s a student at the Ecole Polytechnic.’

Bossuet seemed impressed.

‘He may be something of an idealist. But he’s a theatre enthusiast.’

‘Well, the last bit seems to have settled it for you.’ Bossuet laughed.

‘It has. Theatre, being affordable is an important medium of ideas accessible to almost everyone. Anyway, he seems to be under the impression that we er…may be an educational society and he seems interested in joining, whereas we don’t have enough members to call ourselves a society. And the educational part is based on a misunderstanding anyway, which I blame you for, entirely. 

Lesgles grinned, ‘Well that was one of the names proposed, we don’t have to keep it. Anyway we could invite him here and let him see.’

He stole a piece of chicken from Grantaire’s plate, who promptly takes it back, while he isn’t looking.  

‘By the by, our printer is giving us trouble.’

‘Bayle? I thought he and Leclerc were dependable. We have printed and distributed so many pamphlets through them. Did we check them, before taking them on?’ Bahorel frowns.

‘They are getting spooked up, because they are getting random visits from the gendarmes. We should change them, I don’t quite trust that they might not hand some of us over to them. They know so much about our activities and what kind of material we print. We’ll need to look for a new printer and try to stay low key till the interest dies down.’ Bossuet said.

‘But the lists.’ Bahorel looked worried.

‘Do our printers have the lists?’

‘They know some of the groups we meet, they have met quite a few of the people. Besides, if the printers are compromised, the list is not safe.’

‘What list?’ Grantaire asked.

Bossuet and Bahorel exchanged a glance and looked around the room which was empty, Bahorel hesitated before continuing.

‘The list of all the underground workers’ cells and the secret societies that we are in touch with and their addresses. If that list ends up in the wrong hands, well...’

‘We don’t know if Bayle or Leclerc intend to do anything but it would be unwise to not take precautions.’

‘Move the lists somewhere safe and lay low for a few weeks. But we still need to find a new printer then.’

‘Where do we move the lists and how?’

Bahorel shrugged but continued to be lost in thought as they left Corinthe.

Bossuet clapped him onto the shoulder in excitement, 'The answer my dear, can be learned from the Spartans and their trousers.'

 

* * *

 

Late the same night when the restaurant had closed, Matelote sat at one of the tables reading through some documents, while Gibelotte watched from near the door.

‘I’ve seen you busy reading all this week.’

Gibelotte moved closer to Matelote to read the document but instead stared at her face and pushed a few strands away from it.

‘What are you reading?’ Then upon seeing the pamphlets, she muttered, ‘Oh!’

‘Is it bad that I want to learn about politics? I want to know more about everything, now that I can read.’ Matelote asked with a look of hurt in her green eyes. 

‘No…I…just. I don’t want you to be disappointed or to be hurt. You know, after that student’s funeral, Nicolas Lallemand. I just think it’s not wise to mix up so much in politics.’ Gibelotte said.

‘I know. I still want to know more. Those young men kindly lent me their newspaper and their pamphlets when I asked.’

Gibelotte glanced at the bits of paper strewn on the table.

‘Are you angry?’ Matelote asked.

Gibelotte smiled and shook her head sadly, ‘Angry at someone I’ve long since adored, even if from afar. How can I be mad at you? I will read these with you, if this is the only way I get to spend time with you away from everyone else.’

Matelote blushed a deep shade of red and took Gibelotte’s hand in hers. It had been quite a few months since a look, a smile from Gibelotte made her pause and think about it for days on end.  Gibelotte leant forward and kissed her softly while she closed her eyes. She hadn’t felt her heart racing or her body tingling with so many emotions as she did in this moment. She quickly pulled away, afraid that somebody would walk in through the door and see them.

‘I keep thinking about wanting to kiss you.’ Gibelotte said as they undressed for the night, while Matelote smiled and told her to hush in case someone heard them. They undid the combs in their hairs and put them on the dressing table and their thick hair fell to below their shoulders.  

They kissed again, this time Matelote didn’t pull away. She felt the heat rising from their bodies, her heart beating faster each time. She was aware of the way Gibelotte kissed her, her care in smoothing each strand of Matelote’s hair, the smell of her perfume, and the taste of her lips. She was inexperienced in giving pleasure, she moved around in all the awkward ways she felt, but Gibelotte didn’t seem to mind, instead she patiently guided Matelote and when they finish, Matelote kissed her again. Time seemed to not exist for them in this moment, it lingered delightfully and sped up, all at the same time. She wanted nothing more than to just lie in Gibelotte’s arms like this and feel her body against hers while she slept.

 

* * *

 

Matelote found herself wondering more and more about the activities of the group of young students. 

She also met a new member, Combeferre who by way of conversation talked of the mating habits of the silkworms. She had to confess to Gibelotte later that she understood very little, was inclined to think him boring at first, but the way he explained it, made her develop an interest in the lives of the little creatures and she looked out for them during her walks or amused herself seeking them in the pictures that Combeferre had lent her.

Others also showed up with them from time to time, they were largely blanks for her in the vast canvas because she couldn’t remember their names. There were a few Polish, German and Italian immigrants and it became difficult to determine their orders, because they only spoke a little broken French. In the end, they compromised, she learnt a few of the words they repeated, and they did the same. At any rate their orders were the same and they were the least likely to complain about orders messed up by mistake. She had a good memory for words she thought as she repeated them over and over, a jumble of French, German and Polish words, like magical incantations. That's how she thought of it to herself, it pleased her to think of words having power. They had opened up a new world for her, a world which she was only peripherally aware existed.     

She never knew what these secret meetings were about, though she knew they were discussing politics and she had read some of the political pamphlets. Father Hucheloup had given them the use of the space upstairs to do as they wished.  

New arrivals had started coming to Corinthe, going specifically upstairs and then coming back down and leaving. They never ate or drank anything. Matelote found such customers annoying for she could never hope to get some extra tips from them. Mother Hucheloup also grumbled at these customers. Bahorel or Combeferre seemed happy in explaining the things she didn’t understand. One night Bahorel, Bossuet and Combeferre sought her out.

She was to deliver a list written on a belt that she wore around her dress, to an address that they gave her and which she was asked to memorise.  

She made her way to Boulevard Saint Germain, searching for the shop and found a young man, no older than seventeen operating a printing press. He looked even younger, with a pink complexion to his cheeks and startlingly clear blue eyes. Blonde hair fell on his forehead, in a careless manner.

‘Monsieur Enjolras?’ She asked hesitatingly, gazing around in awe at the sheets of paper being printed and hung out to dry.  

‘That is my name. Unless you’re looking for my uncle. Please call me Michel, citoyenne. Now what can I do for you?’ The young man seemed pleasantly charming but distant.

She told him the code which she had been asked to memorise. Upon learning it, the young man took her to a narrow room inside the shop and closed the door.

‘We can be alone here and talk with ease. Bahorel sent you?’

She nodded and handed him the belt. ‘I took good care of this.’

He stared awkwardly at the belt, wondering what to do, while she drew his attention to the letters scrawled in basic scrambled code. Together, they copied the letters on a piece of paper which revealed the lists. He read the lists carefully and then placed it in a box and locked it. All the time she wondered how such a young man was interested in politics.

They returned outside and the young man began talking about showing her the printing press in front of the other workers.

‘Thank you,’ he said before disappearing into the shop.

She didn’t see either Bahorel, his friends or the young man for several months. 


	3. Chapter 3

1824

Enjolras was new to their group, though not to politics. He seemed to have traversed through many revolutions as they were fond of joking even though he still hadn’t attained his twentieth year. Lesgles introduced Grantaire to him one night as they were having a discussion.  

He greeted Grantaire politely and asked him about his political opinions.

‘I have so many, you would have to be a bit specific. It depends from day to day and the company I keep.’ Grantaire laughed.

There was no look of amusement on Enjolras’ lips. In fact, he seemed slightly irritated but chose not to say anything. Grantaire couldn’t help kicking himself for making a terrible impression. He looked over at Lesgles who was not paying any attention to him because he was deep in conversation with Combeferre.

He surveyed Enjolras more closely, sighed chalked him up to an impossible math problem which he didn’t understand and tried to focus his attention on the conversation that was going on.

‘I see, you would like to start an argument, Combeferre?’ Enjolras said, his blue eyes carrying that faraway look which made him sometimes seem much older and wiser than his young years. Enjolras was born a soldier, though it did not seem to any stranger at first glance. He seemed to thrive in conflict, his whole mien was poised and graceful.

‘Does not a fair and just revolution, need a violent upheaval to end years of oppression? A violence that is not excessive, but is necessary and directed at the right cause.’

‘That still seems to me rather a limited way to solve any issue.’ Combeferre began after a prolonged silence.

‘How then would you suggest we proceed?’

‘Civilisation and progress that is to say, through science and art flourishing and economic prosperity in all the villages, towns and cities. It is not without considerable work. We must lay the foundations on which we can build cities that have education as their compulsory core and without spilling any blood, we would have changed the order of things. You and I are dreaming the same dream, we only differ in the methods. I feel that your ideal revolution runs in straight lines and admits no curves or bends.’

Enjolras seemed annoyed, his lips formed into a pout without him noticing, he was on the verge of saying something harsh as a rebuttal, instead he bowed his head and thought about it. He smiled at the fact that Combeferre had called his ideas rigid and inflexible. 

‘Progress comes slowly.’ Enjolras nodded his voice and tone softening, ‘But how do you build the foundations of those cities without destroying some of the older buildings, the institutions that don’t work? There are things that must be done, even if they are unpleasant. Your ideas seem impractical if you do not account for that.’

The irritation was clearly visible on Combeferre’s face. He chewed his lower lip, then put his pen absentmindedly too near his hand, forgetful of the ink that appeared on his sleeves.

‘Enlightenment among all men should be enough to result in the sunrise you desire.’

‘But it is hardly in the interests of the bourgeoisie to usher in a different dawn from the one that props them up. You know this is why they supported Louis XVIII to the throne.’

Combeferre remained silent and thoughtful.

Enjolras smiled, ‘At the very least Combeferre, you have given me some things to think about.’

‘Likewise. I look forward to discussing more of this with you.’

Meanwhile, Grantaire was playing cards with Sorel and Brisset, drinking absinthe and avoiding Enjolras’ gaze. 

Bahorel recounted that his old school fellow had recently travelled to Spain and Prouvaire wanted to know everything about the country and whether it lived up to the image he had conjured up in his mind, of dashing knights, outlaws and charming young women.   

A young man entered the first floor just then and introduced himself, ‘Leon Fabre from Aix-in-Provence sent me, I went to Café Musain, thought you would be there. He said he was friends with Enjolras. Which one of you is he?’ he asked gazing at the group who all had their eyes fixed on him.

The newcomer looked twice. ‘I was expecting someone…different. Someone not so young and inexperienced.’ He muttered quietly to himself and scowled.

Enjolras forced a smile but said nothing. He started speaking, it was with passion, when his lips ceased; the stranger was both amazed and delighted. Grantaire had not failed to observe the whole proceeding, he too was naturally taken in by Enjolras’ charms.

They sat around discussing things in whispers. Matelote, after serving the drinks and food returned downstairs.  

‘What are you doing in the kitchen?’ Matelote asked as Gibelotte gave her a quick peck on the cheek.

‘Admiring the pretty young actress outside,’ She grinned, ‘are you jealous?’

‘I might be.’

‘Fine, I am hiding here from the drunk who keeps crying about his mistress. I have told him to leave countless times. Father Hucheloup isn’t here, he’s gone away on some business; otherwise he would have dealt with it.’ She sighed, ‘I was hoping the old ragpicker would indulge him and tell him about all the counts and princes she’s met.’

At that moment Mother Hucheloup came into the kitchen to inquire what was taking so long and they both had to leave, looking sheepish.

The next day Corinthe was closed and consequently they could have a day off.

‘Let’s go to the theatre? I’ve heard there is a play starring Mademoiselle Mars for the coming weeks.’ Matelote said excitedly, as she hurried down the stairs and paused for breath.

‘I’m coming,’ Gibelotte said walking down much more slowly, ‘Honestly, I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss; it’s only a play after all.’

‘And that actress, you really like?’

‘Well, now you’re being a tease.’

They walked arm in arm crossing Rue Mondétour and Rue Rambuteau to reach Rue Saint Honore to the theatre while chattering enthusiastically about the actors and actresses and the play.

Autumn 1824

Bossuet was taking a walk around his law school, talking to people, when an unfortunate gust of wind blew away his hat. He laughed at the hat rolling away from him. 

‘A hat is a most useful thing to have, if you have any ambitions of being a sensation in the dance halls and with the ladies.’ The voice grinned. It was soon followed by a student carrying his hat to him.

‘M. de Courfeyrac.’

‘Please, Courfeyrac. Let us be friends immediately. Blondeau has the habit of calling me, de Courfeyrac, even though I have corrected him multiple times. But of course, this is not the only place where he and I disagree. You of course are M. Legle?’

‘By contraction and Bossuet by derivation.’

Courfeyrac laughed, ‘I have heard of you, Bossuet. That was a capital pun you made in class today, pity Blondeau didn’t seem to think so.’

Courfeyrac couldn’t help glancing at the patched up sleeves of Bossuet’s faded coat, Bossuet saw the look and laughed.

‘Indeed, I am that unlucky fellow that Blondeau keeps picking on, for no reason. I am grateful to you for coming to my aid in class. I tell everyone I live under the roof of falling tiles, when I find myself under a roof that is, my last landlord kicked me out over a minor misunderstanding two days ago. I stand before you with the total sum of the possessions I have in the world. Me and my coat, we are very good friends.’

‘Oh, but you must come and live with me then. My rooms are far too big for one person and I am only six months arrived in Paris, you would be doing me an enormous favour. I hate living alone.’

Bossuet thanked him, 'I'm working on a plan to persuade my landlord to let me have my old lodgings, but till then-'

'Say no more. There is one other thing you could help me with,' Courfeyrac began, 'The new coat that my tailor made for me, no longer fits my size. It feels awfully silly to return it. It is no Staub but it is good quality. Would you mind keeping it, if it's in your size?'  

‘I should receive some money from my uncle in a month or two and I can pay you in monthly installments. By the by I must congratulate you on an excellent debate, the opposing student did not stand a chance with that Charter.’

Courfeyrac smiled warmly, ‘Thank you.’

‘Would you be interested in joining a few of us at Café Musain for a few drinks, conversation and to distribute some political pamphlets?’

‘That is a proposition I am hardly likely to say no to.’

‘Let’s go to Corinthe first for something to eat and then to Café Musain where you can meet everyone. And I will hold you to the promise of visiting all the dance halls, to see if wearing a hat can make one a sensation.’


	4. Chapter 4

1825

Joly was not in a good mood all day. He had a cold, a dreadful inconvenience, and he was falling behind on his assignments, because they were studying the diseases in class that he thought he could have the symptoms for.

He had therefore taken a day off to recover from the cold and headache, lest it should turn into something serious, and consequently had fallen behind on his lectures.

To add to his troubles, he had forgotten his clinical notes and Doctor Lisfranc was going to take them on a round of the wards and quiz them on the patients and their diseases.

He rushed towards Hotel Dieu, with his cane, trying unsuccessfully to button the large overcoat, which was unsuited for summer.  He did not want to be caught in the rain and it was better to be prepared by dressing warmly enough.

His heart sank as he entered the classroom and saw that the professor was already asking questions. He had the misfortune of being seated next to Combeferre, who always seemed to know the answers. Joly’s appearance caused quite a commotion. His heart was racing as if it would escape the confines of his chest. He mopped his forehead with his handkerchief and sat down, hardly focused on what was being asked.   

‘Three questions wrong in front of the entire class, and I barely managed to diagnose that last patient correctly.’ he lamented to Combeferre as they were walking from one class to the next. ‘I shall fail dismally.’ His cane wobbled under him and he nearly slipped.

Combeferre in his characteristic concerned, yet un-charming way offered to help him study.

He quizzed him on the clinical diagnoses, the next evening at Corinthe, while the rest played dominos or talked among themselves. Joly answered each question correctly.

‘You will be fine on the exams Joly.’ Combeferre said closing the book, ‘Don’t worry.’

‘But this is not as frightening as standing in front of the entire class and forgetting everything. I know the material, but whenever I get up to speak in class, I find my heart beating loudly, my hands break out in sweat and I almost faint. I am positive I’m coming down with two different diseases, look, feel my pulse, how rapidly it is beating. I should take my exams next year instead of this one.’ Joly said all that in rapid succession, feeling himself ill and wanting to run to his lodgings.

A calm hand was placed on his shoulders, he turned to look. It was Bossuet. There was something in his face, in his look, a sort of calming presence. Joly smiled at him, his feelings of nervousness and agitation passed.

‘What you need are easy ways of remembering this stuff, so you are not nervous in front of your professor. All this is well, but you need to be able to explain this to someone who knows nothing of medicine, like me.’ Bossuet waved his hands and did a comical bow, ‘I offer my services.’

Joly was grateful. Together they made plans for a rendezvous after their meeting at café Musain. They found they had more in common with each other, besides sharing a mistress for a few months.   

The talk moved on to mesmerism. Combeferre was neither supporting it, nor denying that it might work. He was giving some arguments on why it might not work. Joly had left the chair and was now trying to demonstrate the practical principles of how mesmerism actually could work.

So you see, there are poles on opposite parts of the body. It’s all about aligning yourself with them, it's supposed to help sleep.’ Joly’s eyes shone with excitement, ‘The new theories proposed have changed since Mesmer, but Puyseger and Deleuze have also tried somnambulism. I have been trying it out, I shifted my bed to align it with the North Pole.’ He gestured with his hands. ‘And it is a method which has not had any side effects. A somnambulic trance might ease the symptoms of certain diseases.  Science is progressing rapidly, we have the stethoscope, we are better able to identify diseases based on observations of patients, it is not so difficult to imagine that we may find cures by alternative methods.’

‘Let us turn to experiments that can be proven immediately, such as whether Joly would look better in a new wardrobe and be able to attract women’s attention better.’ Courfeyrac smiled.

Bahorel called out from where he was lounging in his chair, ‘Turn around Joly.’

Confused Joly leant on his cane and turned around, feeling shy at all the eyes looking at him.

Bahorel gestured at the leg of the trouser, ‘Yes, this definitely needs to be tighter. You need to show more knee. And the coat needs to go, it’s unfashionable. You should invest in a better one.’

‘Seeing as this part of the education is something Bahorel, Bossuet and I can undertake much better than Combeferre. You had best chalk out a day or two for this very important undertaking.’ Courfeyrac slipped a sly glance at Combeferre, who merely sighed, Courfeyrac never missed a moment to tell him how outdated his fashion style was and he was used to these quips.

Joly absent-mindedly touched his nose and smiled. Bahorel who was taking in Combeferre’s trousers, old fashioned collars, and hairstyle, gave a long and very pointed sigh and turned to Courfeyrac, ‘I did offer to give him fashion advice.’

1826

Feuilly walked from the atelier to his flat two streets from it. He was tired and his hands ached from sitting in the same position all day. He wondered whether he would need a prescription of glasses soon, his vision was sometimes blurry and he couldn’t concentrate. He greeted his landlady and was about to walk into the rooms that he shared with one of his co-workers before remembering that he was supposed to meet with a few of them to talk more about the strike they were planning.     

He rushed back outside, the air was cold and a thin sheet of snow had gathered everywhere since last night, he made his way to one of the workers’ meetings, hurried steps showing his eagerness to reach on time. It was held in a different place every time, so as not to arouse suspicion. They could still not form a union, but the workers had tried to subvert the law in ingenious ways.

He was pleased to see a few old faces, he nodded at some of the other fan makers and some of the Polish and Italian immigrants; there was Fabinot and Guyere, who had come for the first time. He also spied Matelote and Gibelotte, who had taken to attending workers’ political gatherings sometimes. He was surprised to see a few new faces. There was a blonde man with blue eyes and ink stains on his fingers, the kind you would see among printers, and a few others gathered round him who were evidently his friends.

Feuilly spoke warmly and enthusiastically about the need for a way to make sure that the owners stuck to their promises of a raise and better conditions for their workforce. He touched upon other countries: Poland, Italy and talked about immigrants. He was giving way to a new speaker, when news came that the gendarmes were on their way.

Everyone scrambled and rushed outside. Feuilly had been running through a few streets when he heard a voice, ‘Here.’

A kindly face with beaming eyes grinned at him and took him along a side street and through narrow passages till they ended up in the narrow streets forming the back passageway of Corinthe. Father Hucheloup ushered them in before closing the door. They saw Combeferre talking to Matelote and Gibelotte, who were shaken after their ordeal.

The blonde young man nodded at Feuilly’s companion, before frowning, ‘I have checked, everyone is back, except Bahorel and Prouvaire. Joly is bandaging Bossuet’s arm upstairs, he got minor cuts and bruises.’

‘Arrested?’

‘Possible. They were escorting a few people away from the place. It is likely that they may have been arrested.’

Feuilly looked worried.

‘Wouldn’t be the first time for Bahorel.’ His companion tried to reassure him, ‘And Prouvaire can take care of himself.’

Feuilly’s knees buckled under him. Now that he was no longer running from the gendarmes, his body gave way to the tiredness all at once.

His new companions helped him to a chair and gave him a few sips of wine.

‘Feeling better?’ the young man who had helped him asked, ‘I’m Courfeyrac by the way. This is Enjolras. The one in the back is Combeferre, but we’ll get to introductions later.’

Courfeyrac turned to Enjolras with a half formed question on his lips.

‘Not so soon. It may arouse suspicion.’ The young man called Enjolras told Courfeyrac. ‘We will make inquiries tonight. They have no evidence against any of us, so they are bound to release them.’ He turned to Feuilly, ‘I was impressed by your speech this evening, citizen. There were a few points in it that I had not considered before, I would like to discuss these with you further.’

‘Feuilly. I’m an orphan, a painter. I was apprenticed to a fan maker when I was 14 and now I work in an atelier with several fan makers. That’s why they call me Feuilly.’ Enjolras shook his hand.

‘We are pleased to meet you Feuilly.’

Several hours later, a nearly sober Grantaire, who had walked in to Corinthe from Café de Foy and, Courfeyrac made their way to find out the fate of their friends. They came back bringing news.

Enjolras had tried to persuade Feuilly to go home since he was working the next day but he insisted on staying with them and finding out the news.

‘You were right, Enjolras, about them not having anything to charge them with. The guards were not inclined to be talkative but Grantaire and I succeeded. Grantaire outtalked the guards, till they had to give us the information that they will be released tomorrow. They are as well as can be for the circumstances. Prouvaire was sharing some of his poems with the guards and Bahorel was talking to one of them. It’s working out well.’ Courfeyrac told him, shaking his curls and being amused at the image of Prouvaire and Bahorel talking to the guards. Enjolras seemed pleased. Grantaire couldn’t help noticing the look and made a little joke at that, which was ignored.

Feuilly did not know these people but he felt that they shared so many of his own ideas as he listened to them talk. What touched Feuilly the most, because he had been attached with a workers’ group for quite a while now, was that they all cared for each other, like a family. He who had none of his own, warmed up to the people who had made a family among themselves. They were quick at welcoming Feuilly as one of their own.


	5. Chapter 5

Winter 1828

Winter made more work for medical students and interns, as they worked through the days with limited sunlight and felt the cold during their walks to and from the hospital in the mornings and evenings.

Combeferre had taken to coming later and later in the evenings, Joly was no better. When they weren’t at their shifts in the hospital, Combeferre at Necker, Joly at Salpêtrière; they were at Café Musain or Corinthe, discussing politics in low voices, reading or writing pamphlets. Sometimes a sally or a jest would issue forth from this group, or a new topic would be suggested.  

Prouvaire and Bahorel were having an energetic discussion on the classical and romantic theatre, a copy of Cromwell lies open in front of them. Courfeyrac and Bossuet were engaged over discussing a point of law. Courfeyrac is also trying to listen to the discussion about Cromwell. He tipped his chair one way and then another, mixing law and literature together and correcting himself. Combeferre and Joly were discussing the price of cadavers to practice on. There was a scratching of the pen from the corner where Feuilly was sitting. Grantaire was humming a song to himself and listening sometimes to one and sometimes to the others. A few others were playing dominos.

Enjolras had been listening to the various discussions going on, for a moment he moved away to the window. Combeferre quietly came up to stand beside him. He half smiled in acknowledgement.

‘I can see the dawn.’ He said quite simply, 'Or, more a vivid dream where the dawn is visible.'

Combeferre gazed at the calm, violet sky and laughed. Enjolras had said it with so much simplicity and straightforwardness that it did not seem strange to Combeferre, ‘I have to point out that it is still night and it is too dark to even glimpse the stars, there should be an Ursa Major constellation visible at this time of the year. Though you possibly were not looking for it.’

‘Yes. Perhaps you will think me foolish. It is of little matter to me.’

Combeferre shook his head, when he thought of Enjolras he thought of justice and order, of Themis with her gift of prophesy,  ‘An oracle of Delphi perhaps,’ he looked at Enjolras in the warm bright light, ‘Like Themis, though it takes a while for people to believe in prophecies.’

Enjolras smiled, ‘I have faith in the people, even if they do not believe me when I say this.’

‘There was a patient from last week, a smart little girl, with a very high fever. Her parents were poor and from the countryside, they knew very little French and could not afford the doctor’s fees, by the time they came to us, the disease had worsened. She…she died, even though we tried to save her. There is a certain violence in letting people die like that, and be wilfully blind to their misfortunes, when you're in power, like our dear sweet Bourbon king.’

Combeferre looked at the sky and its absence of stars, before steadying his voice and continuing.

‘It made me so angry to watch those helpless parents crying, a while earlier and we could have done something for her, even saved her life. As it is, sometimes doctors cannot save their patients, we have to take it as part of the profession and harden ourselves to it. Sometimes we have to perform amputation or surgery without which the patient will die. I have become convinced of the need for radical surgery in some circumstances. Of course, I’m still dreaming of the day when surgeries will not be painful and people will not die from them.’

‘So am I.’

‘Perhaps we are mad to believe in dreams, and to keep dreaming.’ Combeferre said.

Enjolras smiled, he placed his hands on Combeferre’s shoulders and they stood there close to each other, watching the pale darkness outside, neither of them said a word, they did not need to do so to understood each other’s thoughts.

They returned to their seats and listened as Feuilly corrected Courfeyrac on European history. Enjolras knew very little about Polish and Greek history, the more time he spent in Feuilly’s company, the more he found himself paying attention to it and incorporating it in the pamphlets and in the discussions. Feuilly with his cosmopolitan outlook saw parallels between the civil uprisings in France and the partition of Poland, Greece and other countries.

He had appeared to be shy and quiet during the first few meetings though he readily supplied his opinions on all political issues when prompted. He was occupied with workers’ rights and he often pondered on how to improve the economic situation for them. In his spare time he was studying, sometimes it was Heroditus, sometimes Voltaire, Rousseau or Locke.

Enjolras thought about the beautiful hand painted fan that he had seen in Feuilly’s rooms once. He had remarked on how skilful a painter he was. Feuilly blushed and smiled, changing the subject quickly. A few days later, a similar hand painted fan with intricate details depicting the raging sea arrived at his lodgings. It was the only ornament hanging on his bare walls. He had seen Feuilly paint one of these once, his face screwed in deep concentration, fingers daubed with paint that he rubbed freely on his apron, half smiling apologetically at the mess his table was in.  
How good it felt, he thought, to see Feuilly smile. Courfeyrac had tried and somehow ended up with a debate on his hands about Poland’s partition, easily won by Feuilly. Consequently he had nursed a deep hurt at being told off; if only for a few hours.  He still persisted in lightly ribbing off Feuilly occasionally and Feuilly who had become wiser to the jokes, took it good naturedly and often slipped a few of his own. 

It wasn’t difficult, sitting here, to be filled with a contended feeling looking at all these people gathered here, in the warm bright light emanating from the lamps; ideas and jokes interspersed with serious political planning. Combeferre and Courfeyrac were debating whether the pamphlet should incorporate some humour to appeal to everyone, Feuilly suggested including a cartoon. At this moment he believed even more sincerely in what he had said to Combeferre, of his prophecy of happiness.  

‘Enjolras,’ Feuilly said quietly, he looked up from his thoughts. ‘You haven’t said whether you think this tone works to convey our ideas in this pamphlet and whether it is a suitable rebuttal to this inflammatory article by the Journal des Debats.’

Enjolras blushed, colour rising to his cheeks, pulled the pamphlet towards himself and began reading it.     

1829

‘Aren’t the stars arranged like a symphony tonight?’ Grantaire muttered looking at the night sky through the window. They were playing billiards on the upper floor of Corinthe. 

‘Have you been spending a lot of time with Prouvaire? How are you starry-eyed today?’ Bossuet asked him, laughing as he took a shot at the red ball and missed. It was Joly’s turn and he made a clean shot.

Grantaire made a face at him, ‘You, Eagle of Meaux, have no sympathy. I will read your funeral oration myself in a few minutes.’ 

Lesgles couldn’t help laughing.

‘But I have been spending time with him. Prouvaire talks of feelings and life in his poetry. I have never understood both and sought to escape one or the other at different points of time. I have been feeling contradictory in all manners of the word. Cold and hot at the same time. Melancholy and yet not so.’

‘Are you sure it isn’t a fever?’ Joly looked at him concerned.

‘A thousand times more welcome, I can even endure the leeches. But I asked Combeferre and he told me it was nothing more than a fancy on my part. There has to be another café we can go to. I grow weary of this life, this listlessness.’

‘Some of the cafés will no longer entertain us.’ Bossuet laughed.

‘Is it true that you spent a hundred francs in a café once?’

Lesgles burst into a hearty laughter, ‘Yes. And so we are banned from at least five different cafes for various reasons, a few of those reasons involve Grantaire as well and are equally amusing. I shall relate them all later.’ 

‘I shall exonerate myself by saying that I was only following Bossuet’s example.’

There was a pause and the sound of several balls being hit before Bossuet said in a rather amused voice, ‘The week I actually end up going to law school, I manage to be struck off for being absent.’

Grantaire looked at him surprised.

Joly smiled, ‘Bossuet has been struck off by Blondeau for pretending to be another student. You know, the more I think about it, the more I think that it could only have happened to you.’

Bossuet bowed, ‘My dear friend Guignon can always be relied upon. I hope this M. Pontmercy makes good use of his sixty francs fees and survives Blondeau’s jibes.’

‘He lodges with Courfeyrac, does he not?’

‘Indeed, which is why we yet have high hopes of turning him into a terrible law student. We need to start by taking him to all the cafes and balls. The one at Sceaux, is coming up.’

‘Well, I find happiness in the fact that you are staying in Paris with me while I take my externat exams next year and I hope you shall accompany me this summer to Lyon?’ Joly said.

Bossuet seemed delighted at that, ‘I will stay with you, Joly, till the end of times.’

‘Mind you do not go around saying good things about me to your family,’ he added.

‘I shall say you are absolutely scandalous, a dangerous political revolutionary, the very best of fellows. I could not possibly do without you.’

Bossuet beamed and exchanged a glance with Joly.

'Two stars aligning together produce such sweet light. Ah! Love is at once a terrible sickness and a melody, of which only poetry is the result.'  Grantaire mused. 

‘Do you believe in the revolution? In what Enjolras says?’ He blurted out after a long pause.

Bossuet was not expecting the question, ‘I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.’ Joly nodded in agreement as well.

There was a long silence, which was unusual for Grantaire, they knew. It was as if he was struggling to find some words. He opened and closed his mouth several times without any voice issuing from it. He was not an orator, but words were never something Grantaire had to struggle with.

‘The only certainty is my full glass.’  He managed, a phrase he was fond of repeating.

‘Let’s have something to eat.’ Bossuet told him, putting aside his cue. By dint of persuasion and small talk, he and Joly managed to bring Grantaire to cheerfulness again.

 

Winter 1829

Grief never entered the same way twice, Matelote observed. First it showed itself while she was trying to read and answer a few letters, sitting in the kitchen of her aunt’s small cottage. They were all letters of kindness and condolences, from friends and acquaintances that she was forever grateful for.

Then it came while she was knitting, it was a simple piece but it reminded her of her elder sister; and the way her sister used to knit, leaving trails of wool beside her, where she rolled around and played as a child; and the childhood games they used to play on the streets.

The next time was during the journey in the diligence to her hometown, Montreuil sur Mer. What surprised her was how grief left her alone during the funeral. She appeared calm and graceful, though pale and serious. Talked little and thanked the little gathering of neighbours and relatives for coming.

Afterwards, she took a walk and was astonished at how much her little town had changed. When she left it, it was talked about as a model for other towns. Mayor Madeleine had transformed the little town into a prosperous little hub. When she came back, the town had sunk into a state worse than before. There were rumours too, about the mayor, but she had learnt to ignore what people said, after living in Paris for so long, for the people invented stories about others to pass the time. She had her fair share of rumours to deal with during the years and felt amused at the sharpness that words possessed.

Perhaps there should be a little memorial for the town that was, she thought, surveying the streets. Some of the streets were deserted, when they were full of life ten years ago, Mayor Madeleine’s factory was still closed. How things change, and fall apart in the span of a few years. The town that it once was, felt like a dream she had imagined.   

Memories too resurfaced, of her time in Montreuil sur Mer; memories interconnected with the town. A boy and a girl played in the street and she thought of her brother who was working as a carpenter in another city. A woman walking by reminded her of her mother, long dead. 

She was much happier now that she had learnt to read. She read political articles and women’s magazines, newspapers or the book of Psalms in her spare time. She had become endlessly fascinated with words.   

She wanted to return to Paris and cry in Gabrielle’s arms. Mother Hucheloup would comfort her by telling her stories of the countryside where she grew up, in an accent and a voice that seems to carry with it some of the sights and sounds of that faraway place. Instead she walked around in a place that felt familiar and un-familiar at the same time, unable to cry. 

A year later it would be Matelote and Gibelotte comforting Mother Hucheloup on the death of her husband. A heart attack, a few days of convalescence, a rapid decline in a few hours and another funeral.

He was Father Hucheloup to everyone who had ever visited Corinthe, despite his friendly threats of wanting to fight with every customer, everyone adored him and several paid their respects, including Courfeyrac and his friends.

Mother Hucheloup was incredibly fond of Courfeyrac, despite the fact that his irreverent jokes made her threaten to run after him with a stick like a little child or worse, which is more plausible and more likely to work, to call him de Courfeyrac. He often spent some time talking with her.

She crossed the street behind a passing omnibus trying to find the house where she had lived as a child. She wondered if Marguerite, her mother’s friend was still living at this address. Marguerite had always been kind to her when she was a little girl. She was named after her, too. The last time she had seen her, she was living in poverty with a seamstress named Fantine. She made her way to a little building in the corner, which was, like the rest of the town, silent and falling to disrepair.


	6. Chapter 6

1830

The usual three knocks sounded on the stage before the curtains were raised. Matelote and Gibelotte who were in the pit, looked around at the audience. There seemed to be a lot of hissing and booing from the crowd before the play had even started. Matelote looked at her ticket, it happened to be red with Hierro stamped on it. Prouvaire had visited Corinthe one day to give them the tickets, blushed and then hurried out again before she could thank him.

She had heard them discussing Hernani and in Courfeyrac’s words, ‘making battle plans against the classicists.’ They needed a claque and were short of a few people. 

The curtain rose. There was so much shouting that she missed the first few lines. Gibelotte was telling her what she thought was happening. She had gathered that Mademoiselle Mars was playing Dona Sol.   

‘Is that even a suitable line?’ one of the old gentlemen behind her said to another, ‘They are ruining the metre.’

‘What's wrong with it?’ She heard a young man with a beard sitting near Prouvaire speak up. Another blonde young man also murmured his agreement.

A gentleman far advanced in years, shook his head, ‘The youth of today-’

‘Have gone completely mad.’ A man with long side whiskers finished his sentence for him, ‘What an utter scandal.’

It was the absurdity of the situation perhaps, the old gentlemen with their solemn hats and their boring coats, becoming more and more outraged at the young people dressed in scandalous garments. She espied a young man wearing a red or a pink doublet and energetically adding his voice to the fray. She burst into a loud laughter, Gibelotte who was amused at her laughter also started laughing. A middle aged woman seated near them thought they were laughing at her and she complained to the elderly gentleman who sneezed and his wig fell from his head.

She did not remember how it started, but it ended up with people on the floor, fighting. A horn was broken and emitted a frightful sound.  She saw Prouvaire, Bahorel, Courfeyrac and a few others making loud noises, singing songs and cheering for the play. She cheered with them as Hernani and Dona Sol talked, even though no one could hear what they were actually saying.

‘It is usually not this rowdy,’ she heard a woman say, while a few gamin one of whom she felt certain was Gavroche, were shouting, ‘Hierro’ and running around the circle, the stalls and the private boxes, some people were chanting the name of the author as he came out and took a long bow on the stage along with the rest of the cast members.  

Later she saw Prouvaire standing outside, battered and bruised from the fight, but otherwise in very high spirits.

‘That was an odd bit of entertainment that you and your friends provided.’ 

Prouvaire looked happy at that, he smiled at her shyly. ‘This was a great victory for us. Art must not belong to one specific class, don’t you agree?’

Before she could say anything, he continued in a passionate tone.

‘Too long art has been defined one way, they tell us to not to temper with the Aristotelian unity of the play or to write dialogues a certain way, we have different ideas and we will be heard.’

‘The old gentlemen said you were behaving like savages.’

‘They would, I am far too pleased at that.’ Bahorel’s voice floated from the end of the lobby. The rest of his body appeared in view shortly along with Courfeyrac and Combeferre. He was wearing a waistcoat of the brightest shade of red, a bruised eye matched his waistcoat. Prouvaire was wearing a green doublet tied at the back and with long puffy sleeves. Courfeyrac was wearing a maroon waistcoat and nursing a bruised rib and a grin. 

‘I could have sworn Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire were behind us.’ Courfeyrac said looking around him as the people were starting to file out of the theatre. 

‘I will need new glasses.’ Combeferre interrupted not really listening to the conversation, ‘someone stepped on them.’

July 1830

The quiet stillness of the day puzzled Matelote. Elsewhere Gibelotte was singing to herself. She had a charming voice, rough, untrained, but Matelote was fond of it.

She saw Gavroche and Navet running around and invited them in for breakfast. There was still a dead lull in the air even though she knew barricades were being erected all across the city, everyone was talking about it. A couple of students from the Ecole Polytechnic were erecting one near their street but there was no activity there, the students left for lunch, leaving a makeshift stick figure to guard their creation made of paving stones.  

She couldn’t stand the quiet stillness. The day had a stiff heaviness about it, as if a thunderstorm was imminent but there was no wind; she wished she had brought her large hat. She saw Gavroche again, running as fast as he could, singing another of his songs and waving a revolver in the air. She followed him and ran into Enjolras and the others standing outside his printshop while the gendarmes gathered outside, asking them to give them access to the shop.

Someone threw a stone into the window of the shop. There was a gunshot in the distance and a scream. A man lay dead.  

A riot broke out among the crowd that had gathered and she found herself being swept into it. She ran back to Corinthe for the hat and was joined by Gibelotte and Father Hucheloup. When she returned the gendarmes had left, but the crowd had gained enough momentum, they wanted to march towards Hotel de Ville.

The roads leading towards it had been blocked, so they erected a barricade. Soon they were joined by the Ecole Polytechnic students still in their uniforms and various workers’ groups. Enjolras was talking quietly with another leader who he referred to as Jeanne, while she sat in the makeshift camp, tearing old cloth to make bandages. There were a few odd women, here, some with muskets, others busy with making cartridges and bandages. Gavroche’s voice came from outside once again, he kept flitting in and out, even though everyone told him to stay inside. Joly, Combeferre and another doctor were directing operations in the tent as some of the wounded were brought there. 

Three days later they learned the news of the king having fled from his palace and of the successful march towards Hotel de Ville and Father Hucheloup nodded in approval as he read the papers.

‘Good.’ He said, he had always been a man of a few words, but he seemed pleased.  The Corinthe that evening was bursting with news and excitement as nearly everyone debatesd what kind of government Lafayette and the others would support. Father Hucheloup was walking among the customers, either listening to conversations or shaking people’s hands, his gruff laughter filling the cabaret with good cheer.   

Winter 1830

Prouvaire knew that being drunk already was not conducive to drinking more and spending a night out with your friend. Even if that friend happened to be Bahorel; especially if he happened to be Bahorel. He was always surprised at how Bahorel knew everyone and everyone knew him, from the various cafés, cabarets and bistros across Paris they frequented. They walked to Montmartre and Bahorel discovered some friends and they spent time arguing with each other. Then they walked towards the fish market, where the men and women would sell fish and vegetables during the day and gather at night, some to smoke and all of them to exchange stories and he started talking with them, completely at ease.   

Prouvaire’s head ached as the cold breeze blew around him. Paris was sometimes beautiful during the late nights, the low moon hanging over it brightly, like a lamp hung by the gods themselves watching from Olympus, the stars shining, the street musicians serenading. Even the people walking by and carriages stepping over paving stones lent to the melody, the rhythm of the city, which Prouvaire could feel in his soul.

He had never been to Provence since he was a child, growing up among different relatives in a few different cities. He felt a deep longing to be there, to converse with the objects and nature. The Aix in his mind was a magical city, never fully realised or remembered, difficult to talk about, except in the form of poetic longings and musings. The Aix of his dreams reminded him of Paris tonight.  

He said this much to Bahorel who laughed and told him he was mistaken, the moon was decidedly not pretty today.

‘It is clear you are no poet. You have no feeling for the sublime in you,’

'No, alas, the sublime has no charms for me, I prefer the grotesque. I would like to make a study of it.' 

‘You have decided to disagree with everything I say?’  

Prouvaire felt childish sometimes, like he wanted to stick his tongue out and hide and not care about the world. Sometimes caring about things was too much, it hurt too much being human; having this immense power to become a monster, to oppress others who were weaker and poorer. He thought of kings and emperors and of ordinary men wielding power over their fellow men, of Frankenstein treating the creature with such neglect. I would not want such power over other men, he thought.   

‘Sometimes, I’d…I’d like to be a swan.’ Prouvaire said after a pause.

‘Have you seen one up close? Those beasts can break your neck quite easily if they wanted.’ Bahorel laughed, the quiet stillness magnifying the sound, ‘which is why I have the utmost respect for them.’

He had fought in the July revolution with enthusiasm, fought well, and accumulated scars; all to have ended up with an Orleans’ pear and his policy of juste-mileu, as Bahorel joked.  All for another king in power.

He thought of some of his friends, who had given their lives to the cause, those who died in the revolution, ‘where we were betrayed’ and in various riots around the city and tears appeared in his eyes. He must have said some of it out loud, for Bahorel became thoughtful.

The dreams he has had for the past two days have all been dark. In one of them, he was walking arm in arm with death, their footsteps creating a pattern in the snow and a faint sweet scent which was warm and familiar. He felt no fear- only a deep sadness which made his form feel hollow and empty. He wanted to follow death but he disappeared and Prouvaire could not follow him, no matter how much he wanted to.

Snow was falling as light as a covering of powder; street lamps illuminated the road and the ink splattered sky, throwing little beams of light in the darkness, Prouvaire observed.

His head was aching, he was still feeling some of the effects of the strong punch he had drunk and his mind clouded with ideas that seemed to escape his grasp.  

He thought of nature, how frightening, how wonderful it all seems to him. Bahorel had promised to take him to Gascony, where some of his family still lived, where he would see the chickens, ducks and goats and swans up close too. He wanted to make a study of all the things and of all nature. He thought too of languages he knew; of words that couldn’t be translated from them without losing their beauty. Of collecting those words, those sounds, those feelings of love that he felt for his friends, like you would collect pebbles from a lake, and saving them for times like these, when he felt disappointed and tired.

His fondest memory was of fishing in lakes, throwing pebbles that glanced off the clear water, and running wildly with the other neighbourhood children. In this way, the thoughts occurred to him, without any specific sequence. His head still throbbed and he felt hungry.   

‘Let’s go to a café and have some soup to clear our heads first. That was quite a housewarming party, eh? Although Combeferre trying hashish was quite an experience.’

They made their way to Corinthe since it was nearby and almost always open till late hours. Mother Hucheloup’s cooking may not be up to par, but at least some hot soup would cure them of the hangover. There was no point in going home, since it was nearly midnight.

Prouvaire felt more cheerful as the night wore on, they walked through half deserted streets singing songs as they passed beggars and pedestrians on the street and carriages rolling through the paved roads.

It was a dangerous thing to be happy, Prouvaire thought. That was why the feelings of melancholy made sense to him, this was why he sometimes liked to walk alone on the streets of Paris or to pour his thoughts on paper.

He felt deliriously happy, he thought of solutions to economic problems that he had been thinking about for days, they seemed so simple to him in this moment except he couldn’t write them all down, nor cusp this feeling in the palm of his hands, because it trickled away so quickly from him, deceitful elf! 

He wanted to do a thousand things all at once and felt he had little time before the sun rose and this feeling disappeared like mist. What feeling, this sense of peace with the world. This was what stopped me from being a monster. I am reclaimed through love. Tears poured down his eyes as he thought that.

‘I was thinking about power and what it means to have power over other people and the different forms it can take’ He told Bahorel as explanation, 'I don't think I care much about power but I would have liked to have possessed some charms, instead, I rather think I'm ordinary. I should not find that as comforting as I do.’

‘You are no ordinary bird.’ Bahorel said, ‘Do I need to say it several times for you to believe me, Jehan?’

‘It is not a bad thing to be ordinary.’

Bahorel wanted to take Prouvaire to his bed again, show him everything he could see of beauty in him, everything that made him, still makes him in love with him. But like a swallow he was a creature of his own whims and could not be tamed. Bahorel would never dare to tame him, he loved the wildness in him too much. Instead he repeated, ‘You are not ordinary.’ And he hoped Prouvaire heard him.


	7. Chapter 7

1831

Feuilly crossed out some lines and rewrote them in the light from the flickering lamp, while shadows filled the room. Prouvaire stood near, watching him.

‘So I take it you did not like it?’

‘You can take your M. Hoffmann back.’

Prouvaire was in a playful mood, ‘What exactly annoys you about my M. Hoffmann?’

‘He writes of a frightening world of artificial creatures, of things that he dreams up, instead of reassuring me.’

‘I find such stories reassuring.’ Prouvaire mused, ‘It is oddly comforting to be in the presence of death and not fear it, but rather embrace it like a long forgotten friend.’

‘Ah!’ Feuilly turned his head towards Prouvaire and blinked his soft brown eyes, ‘I do not much care for that. We should turn to practicalities.’

‘You Monsieur Feuilly are all practicalities. I am convinced there is not a bone in your body that is not practical, even the humours that Joly mentions are all aligned in a very practical…’ he searched in the air for a metaphor but he had never fully understood the medical theories that Joly and Combeferre discussed.

Feuilly in his turn grinned at him, ‘I can give you some very practical advice for your plants so that you don’t keep killing them.'

Prouvaire made a loud noise somewhere between frustration and annoyance while others laughed.  

‘Give me a good romance novel where things resolve at the end or a swashbuckling adventure.’ Courfeyrac chimed in. Bahorel looked at Courfeyrac with an amused look in his eyes, he had read the romances on Courfeyrac's shelves, some of them too risque for the polite society that Courfeyrac moved in when he went home.   

‘It was only yesterday Musichetta roped me into listening to her read a new novel, something about a tragic heroine falling in love with a young man at the ball of Sceaux.’ Bossuet recounted leaning against the wall, ‘Joly escaped most of it because he was busy with the body he is dissecting.’

‘I’m surprised Musichetta hasn’t protested at the various arms and legs and other body parts you keep bringing home.’

Oh, that is at Combeferre’s, sort of an uneasy compromise to prevent battle lines being drawn. We also had a skeleton that Bahorel and Prouvaire have adopted.’ Joly grins.  

‘His name is Raoul, he is an artist from the 16th Century who loves medieval architecture and he is a very good companion, I will have you know.’ Prouvaire said, 'Bahorel and I have used him to scandalise our respectable neighbours on more than one occassion.' 

The discussion of where to store the cartridges and the bullets continued on in a roundabout fashion in coded messages.

‘We have to move them from here, we have found a safe house which can be used temporarily.’ 

Mother Hucheloup sent a message with Gibelotte.

They started talking politics very loudly, except they deliberately mixed up the meeting places, the safe houses and names. When they left, Courfeyrac couldn’t help but smile and nod towards the man they suspected was either a gendarme or a spy. Feeling daring, they broke into a political song as they walked home. 

Winter 1831

Combeferre did not worry about Enjolras often. It was Enjolras who sometimes had to remind him to sleep on time and that the paper he had started writing, could wait till the morning. No, Combeferre did not worry about Enjolras that way. And yet, he did worry, an irrational worry, he supposed.

In July of last year, Enjolras was directing the barricade and his side of the barricade was the one taking more grapeshot and heavy fire. He wants to protect everyone who was fighting, let there be no unnecessary deaths. Not that he himself was taking any unnecessary risks. Yet, Combeferre bit his lips, a habit he had picked up during the last few months which had been stressful. 

In the dim light from the lamp which was directly shining over Enjolras’ head, he gazed at Enjolras’ hands, busy writing, scribbling a letter to one of their contacts, a M. Morel, an influential journalist.  

Combeferre worried as he cleaned his friend’s wounds and bandaged his hand, an injury received from the barricades. He worried too, when riots frequently broke out in the city and at the reports of people dead. 

Enjolras had always been given to a serious disposition as it were. People who did not know him wondered if he ever laughed. His peculiar melodic laughter was familiar to Combeferre. But even he sometimes couldn’t know what Enjolras was thinking or feeling; he smiled when Combeferre told him that.

‘You know me very well.’ Enjolras replied, putting a book on the shelf and taking another from it. 

Combeferre sometimes searched his friend’s eyes for signs of frustration that he himself felt after their triumphant march to Hotel de Ville which ended in disappointment for them and the other republican groups or when news reached about the Polish rebellion being suppressed or from Lyon about the Canut revolt meeting a similar fate.

He was not so quick to forgive people as Enjolras was, nor to trust that the leaders like Lafayette or Lafitte would come to their aid again.

‘I trust the people building something from the dust and paving stones of the revolutions, to carry as it were the charge forward. I do not trust the bourgeoisie to look after anyone’s interests except their own.’

‘You are starting to sound more like Marat.’ Enjolras told him.

‘It is your influence.’ 

Enjolras laughed, ‘I wish I could use this influence to take you to the café on Rue Saint Honore so that we can have apple tarts.’ 

Combeferre rolled his eyes, ‘As a medical intern, I have to tell you that you need to cut back on sugary items.’

But Enjolras never said a word that didn’t focus on planning, and on the future and Combeferre believed him, even though he sometimes saw a look of sadness in Enjolras’ eyes that he did not quite know how to interpret.

Enjolras fixed a tender gaze towards Combeferre when he mentioned it.

'I...' he began. He did not know quite how to articulate it. 'I feel for the workers and their families, for the patients that you tell me about, for everyone--'

'I shall make sure not to discuss my work if it distresses you.'

Enjolras shook his head, 'No, Combeferre. I want to share in your frustrations and heartaches. Those are my worries too. Besides, I like that you share your days with me and if it helps you unburden even a little, then I feel it has been worth it. You would not deprive me of that privilege?'

Combeferre did not have the heart to refuse this request, even as he watched Enjolras become more solemn and quieter in the days to come, his political commitments taking up more and more of his time.    

If only they could get closer to discovering more about the miasma theory, about how diseases spread, they could make some progress with consumption, Combeferre thought. 

He had been working on the cadaver of a young man brought only yesterday in the dissecting rooms, trying to determine the cause of consumption. He thought of the young man’s elderly mother, his only surviving relative and how she would scrape by without him. He choked back some tears, though he didn’t mention this to Enjolras.  

He searched among his papers, among Laennec’s theories, while Enjolras sat beside him. Sometimes he shared his frustrations while reading to process his thoughts and Enjolras listened to him.  

Combeferre in turn listened when Enjolras talked about the new printers he had met who share their politics. There have been too many riots, some people from their own society disheartened at the politics have left. But they have been trying to build alliances.

‘I just feel that after the progress we made two years ago, we have taken two steps backwards.’ Combeferre told him as they returned from a trip to Lyon where they met members of their affiliated society and walked back, tired after a long journey.  They stepped into Corinthe for dinner before heading to their lodgings.

‘You're a scientific man, just because your findings do not seem to discover new knowledge, doesn't mean they are useless. Be patient.’

Combeferre was grateful for these words, even as his own work became more and more difficult and intense at the hospital because of cholera in the coming months. They spent very little time together, Enjolras too was either at meetings around the city, sometimes with journalists, printers, or Courgourd d'Aix members, at other times talking to the workers and students.

It was all the more sweet then when they could snatch a few moments together. Enjolras read Echo des travailles, a newspaper from Lyon. He had some ideas about better protection for workers that he wanted to put together in a pamphlet.   

Combeferre worked on his own paper, his mind teeming with ideas, of concepts that he had not tried before, that were only now becoming clearer and sharper, like a sculpture hewn out of stone that one of Prouvaire’s friends was fond of making.

 He looked at the clear sky through the window, its absence of stars did not seem to bother him. Outside, the street lamps gave little pockets of light, as he watched a cabriolet trot forward, making its way through the cold, damp mist. He felt cheered by the presence of the street lamps in the great overarching darkness of the night sky.   

Combeferre took out his pocket watch to observe the time and placed it back, there was a certain charm to this, them working together in the same space, only inches away from each other, he did not want to break the spell of this moment, but he couldn’t resist running a hand through Enjolras' curls very gently. Enjolras looked up from his work and smiled at him, filling him with warmth and happiness.

 

1832

What remained afterwards? She thought. She still dreamt of the National Guard in their bright uniforms sometimes, coming so close to the barricades, pointing their guns at her that she woke up in fright. So what remained afterwards, she asked herself several times, feeling the loss of missing friends, like a weight she could not shake off.

Sometimes she wished they would walk in to Corinthe, joking and laughing.

But Corinthe too was splintered wood and broken glasses and tables scattered everywhere. Corinthe was Mother Hucheloup in grief, talking about Courfeyrac and recalling his irreverent humour and his warm smile at odd intervals of time. Corinthe was Gibelotte, whose silent face, more tired than ever was like a hieroglyph which she could no longer decipher. She had taken to walking lost and silent from one room to another.

Funny how hieroglyphs made her think of Combeferre and his hour long philosophical analysis which devolved into a discussion about the many different religions; she still had his illustrations of the silkworm moths, if only he would come walking through that door.

And what of Jean Prouvaire and his prophecy while she made lint and bandages? Jean Prouvaire who always looked so kindly at her and read poetry, sometimes she stood near the staircase listening to every note, every thrill in his voice as he read his words out loud, words which had so much power to move her to tears. 

 What of Bahorel and his daring opinions. She remembered him fondly, it was his rushing out and attacking the national guards which saved the barricade the first day. It was his death that struck her the most, though she hardly remembered crying at it, there was too much to do, make sure the bandages were made, the cartridges were ready. Grief afterwards, but what remained?  

What of the cheeky little Gavroche, who reminded her of her youngest brother, who was always ready with a quip, what of that little sparrow, that would fly no more towards the doorstep of Corinthe, with a sally to lighten the mood and the songs that would no longer soar and reach her ears? 

And what of Joly and Bossuet, funny how you rarely saw one without the other after a while, they had died together too, one struck by a bullet, one by a bayonet. Bossuet’s good humour and Joly’s good cheer were always so infectious, they made her laugh, they always asked after her. So what remained after, when the laughter died down?

She remembered Grantaire playing dominoes, talking or playing cards, filling the wine shop with outrageous jokes, irreverent humour and sometimes with one or another friend, most often with Joly and Bossuet making a threesome, always found in company, he sometimes annoyed her, but she still blinked back some tears. 

What remained after, when the only thing she remembered about Feuilly who she had met several times during the meetings in cafes and occasionally in bistros, were that his smile was charming and that he opened up once you got to know him and was ready with a joke or two, and always ready to help everyone, eager to know everything about the world. His paintings were beautiful, she had seen some fans that he had painted in a shop once, and had bought two impulsively. He had no family, yet he seemed part of hers, but the markings on the opposite wall, were all he left behind. I never said goodbye, she thought. She kept the fans on her dressing table.   

And Enjolras whose speeches warmed her heart, she remembered him talking about the future, about love at the barricades. He had a way of showing her the future plainly. Somehow her political interest wasn’t useless. His speech had encompassed everyone, women, children, she was in it. She and others like her. She and Gibelotte and the workers who fought for their rights and the newspapers who printed the accounts of the rebellion and the people who would remember this and remember the ones who were here and talk about them.   

When she thought that, she thought of a little bird, a robin that sometimes perched on the windowsill and sang a little song to her every morning. She shooed the bird away, go away can’t you see I’m in no mood for your songs. The little bird stubbornly came every morning and sang its song. After a few weeks, Matelote found that the bird had made its nest near the broken window. She kept repeating some of the words of Enjolras’ speech to herself and to the little bird, till she could recite it and it felt like a part of herself. If you repeat words over and over they begin to have a magic of their own.   

She knew the process of rebuilding Corinthe, not just the wineshop but what it had come to stand, would continue. She wanted there to always be a place like that. Good Lord, she remembered hunger and cold when she was young, in a large family with many mouths to feed. She was not going to give in to the feelings of despair.

Does grief have a form, does it have a tangible shape? Could you touch it? She was aware of its presence constantly, even though she thought to herself that she would grieve later, there was so much still to do. So she snuggled against Gibelotte, hoping to protect her from it all: The shouting orders, the marching feet, the screams of people falling, the bullets raining, her hands clammy and sweat sticking on her forehead whenever she woke up.

She spent her time reading or writing instead of sleeping. Laudanum helped sometimes and she fell into a dreamless sleep, but she hated how it made her feel afterwards. There would be time for concrete plans, she wanted to keep going to political meetings. It seemed even more important than ever.  For now mornings were spent in trying to clear away the splintered glass, broken furniture and memories of Corinthe that once was.   

She felt their presence sometimes, at various intervals of time, there they were, all of them, sat around the tables, laughing, joking, teasing each other, asking her about her day, recounting the details of their daily lives. She broke down and cried as she thought of them all. There was still so much to do, she reminded herself wiping her tears and taking up the broom again, the little robin in the windowsill fluttered and took flight.

**Author's Note:**

> The bit about Spartans and their trousers isn't just my attempt at making a joke, as far as I understand, they did hide secret messages in belts: https://www.scienceworld.ca/blog/how-hide-secret-message-your-pants-scytale
> 
> The Marat reference is to Marat's claim after the National Assembly session of August 4, that the nobles were only renouncing their titles because of the peasant revolt and it would be unwise to rely on them, they had no intention of making fundamental sacrifices. Source: Jean Paul Marat: Tribune of the French Revolution. Combeferre in turn echoes a similar sentiment here of not wanting to rely on the bourgeoisie.
> 
> M. Hoffmann is of course, E.T.A Hoffmann.


End file.
